There are days when I forget how that side of the world looked like. It felt home, even though the eighteen days I spent there were all too foreign. It’s a place that I only used to hear in songs, see in movies, and read in books. I’ve always dreamt to write about it, travel and write, live life outwards. And yet here I am, twenty-two days after, sentiments overpowering the capacity to write, feeling too much, writing too little. 

Six cities, four countries, eighteen days. I’ve collected my best memories in a glass jar, taken everything to heart. The beautiful architecture, the rich culture, the good food, I took them exactly for what they were.

And yet I cannot write about it. This forgetfulness is my weakness. There are times when I do not recognize anything at all and I worry if Europe in my mind is entirely fictional. But then it rushes back to me every now and then, in the slightest details.

It was a bumpy flight back home.